Chen Wangtian finally lowered his head to look at his wife's face. It was smeared with tears and mud, strands of hair plastered to her forehead, lips cracked and bleeding from screaming. The blood traced a dark red line down her chin. He remembered Xiulan as she was when she married him—eighteen years old, two thick braids, eyes that curved like crescent moons when she smiled. The villagers all said Chen Wangtian had married a good wife: pretty, capable, gentle-tempered. After ten years of marriage without a child, Xiulan had drunk countless bitter herbal concoctions behind his back and never once complained. When she finally conceived Nian'an, she would sit in the courtyard, hands cradling her belly, basking in the sun. That image was the most beautiful thing Chen Wangtian had ever seen in his life.
His Adam's apple bobbed once. His lips parted, but the words that came out sounded as if borrowed from someone else's mouth: "This is the village rule. Nian'an was killed by an evil thing, and his nail was taken. If we don't burn him, he will become one too."
Xiulan froze for a single instant. It was so brief that no one else noticed. But Chen Wangtian saw it—the light in Xiulan's eyes dimmed in that moment, like a candle flame pressed by the wind. Then the light blazed back, brighter and hotter than before.
She released her grip. Slowly, inch by inch, she rose from the ground. The wounds on her knees still oozed blood, trickling down her calves and pooling at her ankles. She did not wipe it away. She had stopped crying. She stared at Chen Wangtian, at Old Wu, at every single person present. Chen Dazhu shrank back half a step under her gaze. The two sisters-in-law unconsciously loosened their hold. Finally, her gaze settled back on the body still breathing atop the pyre.
"He's not dead," she said, her voice suddenly very soft, very level, like a frozen lake with all the turbulence trapped beneath. "Whoever lights this fire, I will burn with them."
In the forest behind the village, a flock of crows was startled into flight, flapping noisily across the darkening sky. Their cries were shrill and drawn-out, echoing several times through the hollow before fading. Old Wu's fingers paused on his prayer beads for an instant—so brief no one noticed. He looked up at the last streak of sunset, and the corner of his mouth twitched. It might have been a smile, or something else entirely.
Xiulan did not see it. She had already turned and was walking toward the pyre. The two sisters-in-law tried to grab her, but she shook them off. She reached the edge of the pyre and stretched out her hand, grasping Nian'an's dangling hand. The child's palm was still warm. She held it tightly, just as she had ten years ago on the birthing bed, when she first held that tiny, clenched fist.
She had told herself then: this child's life came from her body, and no one would ever take it away.
She believed it still.